


all for the possession of him

by orphan_account



Series: ask and ye shall receive [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Biting, Fight Sex, Fingering, Knotting, Love at First Sight, Love at First Smell, M/M, PWP, Pack Dynamics, Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Werewolf AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:07:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5299394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharp teeth and sharper claws, and the law of the pack older than the bones of the hills. In order to claim Castiel for himself, Dean must first best him in single combat. </p><p>Omegas are vicious bastards and Dean's not entirely sure how this is going to work out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all for the possession of him

**Author's Note:**

> the first of the 'ask and ye shall recieve' requests.
> 
> i've never written a fight scene before, so be gentle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _“And in the meanwhile, the she-wolf, the cause of it all, sat down contentedly on her haunches and watched. She was even pleased. This was her day- and it came not often- when manes bristled, and fang smote fang or ripped and tore the yielding flesh, all for the possession of her.”_
> 
> White Fang, Jack London  
> 
>  

 

 

 

There are rules.

  
There have to be rules, or else there will be chaos.

  
There are rules, and Dean has always understood this, but one flicker of Castiel's scent and he wants to shed the old constrictions like so much snakeskin.

The rule of fang and claw: bite, claim, mate. _Mate._

But that's not how it works. He's not some knothead wanderer and Castiel is far from a feral bitch -- they both have packs, and in the interest of not getting his scrotum   by Michael (the scariest motherfucker Dean has ever seen), Dean has to obey.

 

\--

 

There are rules, and the first of them is this: you shall first approach the packleader of the wolf you wish to take for a mate.

  
Dean takes wolfform for the meeting. He feels more secure within his fur, and his senses are sharper. The air is redolent with wet grass and wet earth and the slow fall of autumn rain; the moon is the shape of a scythe, riding on a froth of grey cloud.

Castiel sits demurely in the background as his brothers circle Dean. The Milton pack is the greatest in the northern States, and Dean knows that Michael and Lucifer are well within their rights to tear him limb from limb for even daring to  approach Castiel.

But Dean is nothing if not bold, and he holds himself still as the two sniff him head to tailtip; he conducts himself with supreme dignity, even when Lucifer takes a bite from his ear. The pain is sharp and shooting as lightning, and Dean feels the warmth of his blood trickling coppery down his skin -- but he doesn't move.

"Enough," says Michael. He is the biggest wolf Dean has ever seen -- and that includes his dear departed Dad. Easily eight foot at the shoulder, with teeth the size of a man's head and fire-yellow eyes -- yeah, Dean's not going to get on the wrong side of him.

Lucifer's a little smaller, but not much. His brother is black as night, but Luci's fur is as gold as dawn (when he was a frail, fubsy pup people called him Morning-pelt. No one does that anymore.)

Lucifer has a muzzle stained red with Dean's blood, and a scrag of Dean's ear between his teeth --

\-- oh no. Not anymore. With a clatter of teeth he swallows it and then winks one burning eye at Dean, and Dean's hackles rise; fury shudders under his skin, and his scent grows sharper. Michael ignores the reaction, and summons Castiel with a flick of his tail.

The first time Dean saw Castiel, he thought that Heaven had spat a star down, just for him. Time has done nothing to diminish the initial assessment. Castiel is a streak of white fur and sky-bright eyes. He is violence and power, caged in the lithe body of an omega; he is storm and cosmos, he is fire and flight. His scent is the sweetest Dean has ever encountere, singing of pups and mate and home.

  
He smells of spring. Of new rain on dead ground, of unfurling green shoots, of a world slow waking. Of new starts. Mingled with this is the sweet, high scent of an omega about to go into season for the first time; and overlaid on all of that, of course, is the reek of his pack.

Dean wants to flay that scent off him -- the stink of Michael and Lucifer and the rest -- and replace it with his own, with Sam's, with --

Uh, well that would be it.

The Winchesters are not a large pack.

But with Cas there would be pups, and Dean's family would swell.

Still.

First things first.

"What say you, brother mine?" coos Lucifer. His voice is grating. Shoulders ducked, lips lolling back in eternal amusement -- like he finds Dean's every action amusing beyond all belief -- and it seems Castiel has a similiar reaction to Lucifer's playacting: his teeth show, and he rolls his eyes.

Beautiful eyes, thinks Dean. Bright as the summer sky. The blue of all the mornings in all the worlds, swirled together.

(Love has made Dean a poet, and not a very good one.)

"I say let the alpha try," says Castiel. His packmates -- some close, some hidden in the murk -- howl with joy at his words. Some of the voices Dean recognises: Anna, that bastard Uriel, little Samandriel. Others he does not.

A quiver flicks between his shoulderblades. He is acutely aware that he is outnumbered, and his death would be a disaster for his pack -- his pack that consists entirely of his brother --  and a wiser alpha would not have made this challenge; but Dean Winchester is not a wise alpha, for he is in love.

Besides. It's too late to pull out now. The pack would tear him apart if he tried -- to offer himself to Castiel, and then to reject him, is too great an offense to be left alone.

"Then let the alpha try," says Michael, clipping his teeth at his brother in remonstration. "Let the pack stand witness. My brother's virgin flight begins this night. Castiel -- I bid you, fight hard and fight well, and ensure that this alpha is worthy of you. I implore you: remember that his background is ignoble, that his pack is weak and his manner unkempt; that his father was a wanderer and his mother from no great clan; that he is insolent and absurd. If I were you, I would tear out his throat."

It's a sickening departure from ritual, and the assembled crowd grows silent. Dean's skin is afire with anger, and yet his throat must remained stoppered up -- for to rise to the insult is to invite certain death.

"I will fight, and fight well brother," says Castiel. As ever, his voice is an unreadable rasp. "And only the worthy will best me."

"This we know well," leers Lucifer, "for the bones of your suitors litter our packlands -- do you know this Dean Winchester?"

Dean did not. In wolfform, he cannot hide his emotions; his scent rises with surprise, tinged with the musk of arousal.

An omega who has killed other suitors is nothing but desirable. Dean imagines Castiel, human formed, blood to his elbows and staining the white column of his throat, sitting amidst a tumble of limbs rent from the unworthy who would seek to claim him.

Oh fuck.

"Well, that explains that question," mutters Lucifer. His brother -- Gabriel, isn't it? -- yammers with laughter.

"Standing to attention, I see!" he sings out, and at ocne the rest of the pack join in, singing ribald jokes to the sky; one (Gabriel, Dean is sure) starts an impromptu round of 'The Wolf Who Could Not' and the rest join in.

(The Wolf Who Could Not is a song traditionally song at such gatherings. It tells the story of a young wolf who, upon vanquishing his mate in battle, finds that he cannot consumate the match. Dean does not like this song.)

"Are you a pup?" snaps Michael. His anger is palpable, and hideous, and at once his pack quiets and sits in impatient, quivering silence. "Are you -- "

"Hush, brother. Castiel, rip his cock off if you want to -- look how easy it is to see! -- or get knotted and bear his pups, I care not which. Only go at once, and go now, for I cannot bear another moment of Michael's paternalism. Dean Winchester know this: an insult to Castiel is an insult to us, and if you dishonour him in any way I will ensure that you see all you love die before you too go screaming into the abyss. Do you understand?" Lucifer's voice is a cut through the night.

Dean nods. He's quivering with anticipation. Castiel's scent  is sharp and clean with excitement, cut through with a seam of sugar-syprup.

Lucifer points his nose to the moon and starts to sing. The pack joins in, one at a time, and Dean stands lost amidst the swirl of alien voices, and he wants nothing more than the company of his best beloved, his brother and packmate, but Sam is not there; Dean is alone in the song and the emptiness and he is, for the first time, afraid.

And then, just as the song peaks to a crescendo, Castel yips an invitation, and in a whirl of white he is gone.

All thoughts of Sam fly from Dean's head. The chase is on. 

 

\--

 

Castiel is is fleet of foot and sure of step, and leads Dean through the deepest tangles of the forest, seeking out the most gnarled of roots and tightly knotted vegetation. He dances through the obstacles with all the grace that an omega alone can possess, and Dean feels heavy and unsure as he blunders after him, thorns snagging at his pelt, his torn ear an insistent pulse of red at the edge of his vision.

But Castiel's scent draws him on: a rope of sugar, a shuddering throb in his knotbrain, an instinct stronger than anything. And so even when Castiel is out of sight, and all is black forest and silver moonlight, even then -- Dean smells him, and continues, his paws tearing up chunks of dark earth, sending deer to flight. 

Christ, but the bastard is fast.

Some omegas will be coy -- linger to rub their scent glands against a tree, flicker their brush to and fro, call out flirtation as they run -- but Castiel is nothing but single-minded intent.

But Dean knows that Castiel wants him -- or, at least, is intrigued enough to let him try. A word from Cas -- a mutter of _no not this one_ \-- and even now, Dean's blood would be cooling on the leaves of Castiel's packgrounds as his packbrothers (and Castiel himself) feasted on Dean's heart. 

And so he runs on. The pound of his heart, the roar of blood in his ears -- like the surge of stormwater. He runs like every alpha in the history of the world has run, the ancient primal chase, the mating-trail. 

Around him, the forest starts to slacken. Tight curls of shrubbery open up, and Dean finds himself in a clearing. The circlet of sky above is shattered-glass clear, stars blinking down like bright silver eyes. 

Castiel has stopped. His pelt is scruffy and ill-groomed, sticking up in random spikes; his gaze is as cool and dispassionate as ever; and though Dean's flanks heave with exertion, Castiel's breath is slow and deep and even. 

"Give up?" crows Dean, his lips lolling open in a grin. 

"If I were to give up to you now," says Castiel. "Would you knot me? Claim me still?"

It's an odd question, and Dean finds himself shocked into honesty, "No. I wouldn't. Because anyone I mate would put up more of a fight. All you did was run a bit." He lashes his tail back and forth in agitation. "You aren't giving up are you?" His voice climbs into a whine. 

Castiel answers Dean's question by  _leaping_ at him. 

 

\--

 

Alphas are larger than omegas. They are stronger. They are bulk, and heavy jaws, and Dean is half again as large as Castiel -- in a straight fight, where both are tethered in such a way that they must face each other tooth-to-tooth, Dean would win from sheer size. 

But, obviously, this is not a straight fight. Dean is not so foolish as to expect a straight fight. Omegas are small, deadly, clever little bastards. 

Castiel strikes, and at once leaps away in a lightning flash of movement. His teeth score Dean's flank, thwarted by the dense fur, but Dean has fought enough to understand that the initial thrust is not intended to wound but to provoke. An angry foe is a careless foe, and as such he remains calm, hunching down, tense lines of muscle under his grey-black coat. 

"Come forth," drawls Castiel, echoing old words of ritual. "Come forth alpha, come forth and try."

Dean snarls, and pounces. He must get in close -- if the fight is on Castiel's terms, the omega will tire him with repeated lunges, dancing here and there and everywhere, exhausting Dean with precision bites. But once he is in close quarters, he can use his superior weight to pin Castiel down and claim him. 

But Castiel is water: gone in a flash. Dean's teeth close in empty air, and only the high song of pain along his side alerts him to Castiel's strike. 

"Bastard!" he barks. 

Castiel fights in silence. He does not even snarl. He whirls away, a flush of red on his nose, and dances in a wid wild circle. There is joy in his leaps, and Dean is -- for a moment -- hypnotised. 

Then the omega bites him again, twisting his head to the right to better tear at flesh, and Dean cries out. This wound is  _deep_ \-- blood runs out in a bright copper flash, and Dean forgets decorum, forgets Castiel's beauty, and responds only to the stimuli of pain-attacker- _kill_. 

He throws himself at Castiel; the first leap sends him skidding wide, and Castiel  _laughs_ \-- a series of high yips -- and Dean tries again, and this time his feet skid on the soft ground and he sprawls useless and slack, a heap of miserable fur and bone and blood. 

Castiel snorts derisively, and stalks forward to deliver the killing blow. "I thought that you --"

Dean explodes out of the ground, his feigned clumsiness sloughing off him like snakeskin, and he ploughs into the astonished Castiel with enough force to send him sprawling. 

Yes.  _Yes_.

And then Castiel transforms. 

Fuck. Rules are rules. 

One of the rules: thou shalt face the omega in the form that he/she doth choose. 

Dean has no choice but to shed his wolf form. His fur melts away, his eyes shrink, and in a heartbeat he is naught but a naked man, straddling another naked man, and --

Oh God. 

His cock, raw red and weeping, slides up against Castiel's. He sees stars. He wants nothing more than to flip Castiel onto his back, hold him down, slide in to Castiel's wet and open hole, knot him, chew open the nape of his neck to seal his claim now and forever --

\-- but Castiel isn't done. He flings his knee up between Dean's legs, and Dean sees a very different set of constellations. 

 

\--

 

The pain between his legs is red and huge, and he buckles over, vomiting onto the forest floor. A thick, hideous ache settles in the base of his stomach and it takes a moment to be able to see again. 

By the time he has blinked pain-thick tears, Castiel is gone. 

 

\--

 

"Bastard!" he barks out, again, but he is not so easily vanquished -- his sense of smell is dimmed by his human form, but he still has a nose  better than any man -- and he would be able to pick out Castiel's scent from ten thousand thousand in-heat omegas. 

"You don't get away that easy," Dean mutters himself, and throws himself once more into the chase. 

 

 --

 

Dean does not know these woods. All he can do is run on, chasing Castiel's scent, and he would have blundered on all night had it not been for Castiel's blood-hunger. There is no honour in outrunning an alpha; any omega can do it; and if Dean were to tire of the chase and vanish, Castiel would have to face the taunts of his brothers. 

And so he doubles back, performing a wide and effortless loop, switching to wolfform to better lay his trap, picking up Dean's wonderfully rich alphascent through the tumult of wildlife and rain -- and moments before he springs he remembers himself, and the rules of the chase, and sheds his wolfform in a hard shudder. 

 

\--

 

Dean tumbles over as Castiel batters into him. Castiel is closer to Dean in size in humanform, and he does not need to spring and leap away as he did as a wolf. He punches Dean in the face -- Dean sees black stars, and the taste of pennies fills his mouth -- and brings his knee up, aiming for another dick-based blow. 

This time, Dean is ready. He grabs Castiel's throat, and bears him down, using his bulk to pin the omega to the ground. Castiel thrashes, his fingernails scoring red lines across the back of Dean's hands. Dean doesn't want to choke his mate to death -- even if his face is red and wet with his own blood, and his side is torn muscle and fucking agony -- and so he releases Castiel's throat, and punches him in the mouth. 

And then he kisses him. 

Finally.  _Finally_. Castiel's lips remain tense and shut, and Dean ignores the resistence, licking at his split skin, drinking in the sweet high  _gorgeous_ taste of his mate. His almost-mate. He nips at Castiel's lower lip -- Castiel's mouth shapes a snarl -- and Dean takes advantage of the break, thrusting his tongue into the warm cavern of Castiel's mouth, licking and teasing, trying to coax a response. 

A low rumbling snarl starts at the back of Castiel's throat. The thrum of it against Dean's chest is delicious, and sends waves of lust straight down to his cock. He's got both hands devoted to pinning Castiel down, so he resorts to trapping one of Castiel's thighs between his own and having a good old-fashioned dry hump. 

It's dry. It's cold. And yet it's quite possibly the best thing Dean's ever had on, or near, his penis. Castiel's skin is sweat-slick and electric, and Dean can't get enough of it. 

His thumbs bruise the hollow below Castiel's collarbones. As he pulls back, trying to get a better angle, he can't help but coo over the wonderful mess he's made of Castiel's face: the omega's lips are split open, oozing blood, and his mouth is bruised plum-dark. "Fuck me, you are beautiful," whispers Dean, lifting one hand to trail devoted fingers down Cas's cheek. 

Castiel slams his elbow into Dean's flank, surges up, and in a hard powerful movement throws Dean off him. 

But this time, he does not run. 

He straddles Dean, and kisses him back -- Dean opens up for him, pliant and hungry, and Castiel bites his tongue, bites his lips, bites and bites until Dean has to hold him at arm's length -- strands of Dean's blood dangle from Castiel's lips; he's a feral, beautiful horror. 

"You're gonna be a great mom," Dean murmurs, utterly blissed out. 

Castiel punches him in the face. 

Dean grabs Castiel's hair, tugs back, and feels strands break away in his hands. Oh, he's got to be careful -- Castiel has the most marvellous hair, ruffled and messy like he's just been thoroughly fucked, and Dean doesn't want to rip it all out. 

"Easy," he says, thrumming his voice with tones of alpha-command, the low and soothing timbre designed to pacify vicious omegas. 

It doesn't really work.

 

\--

 

Castiel bites Dean's neck. Dean throws his legs around Castiel's waist, cants his hips up, pushing their cocks together -- Castiel utters a sharp gasp, and punches Dean in the face again. 

"I thought you liked --" Dean starts to say, but Castiel has apparently had enough of his wisecracking: he kisses him again, lapping and sucking at the blood oozing from Dean's mouth,  _purring_ in pleasure. Dean gives up on the idea of getting on top -- clearly that's not going to happen. 

Doesn't mean he can't get what he wants. Keeping one hand clamped on Castiel's nape to keep him in place, he trails his other hand down Castiel's spine, following the vertebrae until he can brush one finger along Castiel's crack. He's wet, dripping with slick, and when Dean presses his index finger inside he whines like a bitch in heat. 

Well. To be fair, he is one. 

Dean almost comes there and then; Castiel's ass is a hot, wet clutch around his finger, blisteringly tight and mind-meltingly good. His cock is painfully hard, jostling between them, but he daren't move his hand to touch it. Instead, he flexes his hips up, trying to get a little bit of friction against Castiel's stomach. 

A cruel smile blooms on Castiel's face. He leans back, and Dean almost bursts into tears -- but  _holy fucking shit_ \-- the movement away from Dean's cock means that Cas sinks back further into his finger, and Dean crams a second finger up there. Castiel's smile is still there, still a cruel slash in his face, and -- with the casual defiance of a man utterly in control -- he starts to jack off, running his hand up and down his cock, his eyes going half-lidded and lazy with pleasure. 

 Fury spikes under Dean's ribs. He wants Castiel to look as broken and fucked-out as he should do, and without a word of warning he shoves fourfingers into Castiel, deep and hard -- and as he does so he grips with his hand on Castiel's nape, fingers biting in, yanking Castiel forward for a biting, hungry kiss. Castiel gasps at the shove of Dean's fingers, rocking his hips back, the movement of his hand growing more frantic, unhinged -- and with a breathy gasp of  _Dean_ he comes over Dean's chest in a series of white spurts. He slumps, boneless, and it is no work at all to flip Castiel onto his back, hefting his knees towards his shoulders, exposing his asshole. Dean gives himself a moment to stare, and admire. 

Castiel's rim is puffy and red, and he's leaking slick like a flood. Dean tugs at him; he's sloppy and dripping and just begging to be filled up. 

Dean's a gentlemen. He's always one to oblige. 

He pushes in, staring with open joy as Castiel's hole stretches pink and pretty around his cock, glistening wet. He's inside Cas, inside where he is beautiful and wet and entirely Dean's. No one will ever see Castiel like this, no one but Dean. 

Dean bottoms out, balls resting on Castiel's ass, and for a moment he rests, savouring the feeling of Castiel splayed open around him. 

And then he pulls out, Castiel's rim catching on the slow slide of his dick -- Castiel mewls -- and that noise makes something snap inside Dean's head, and he plunges in as hard as he can, hips snapping forward. Castiel's mewl breaks open into a scream, and Dean snarls back at him, beyond words, beyond reason, beyond anything. He grabs Castiel's shoulders, bearing down, using his full weight to pin Castiel in place -- and the omega is slack and unresisting beneath him, smirking up like he's won every lottery ever held -- and he fucks in, hard and deep as he can, pulling out and plunging in, bending Cas almost in half to get as deep as possible. 

"Tell me you're mine," he says, grabbing Castiel's insufferable sex-hair and yanking his head back to bear his throat. "Tell me," he says, and cuffs Castiel across the raw, bleeding mouth. 

Castiel smiles. "Yours. Always. And you are mine."

"Of course," says Dean, pressing in deep and hard and  _yes_ \-- he feels his knot swell, stretching Castiel almost to breaking point, shoving inside, making room for Dean. 

And that's it. They're joined. Castiel's face is wet with blood and tears, and although on the outside his asshole is still stretched around Dean's dick, inside him he is having to deal with the heavy press of a knot. He's never had one inside him before. Dean smells his pain. 

He presses butterfly kisses to Castiel's face, murmurs how beautiful he is, how wondrous. He's coming, and still coming, spurting inside Cas -- intent on getting him with pup. 

They'll probably be linked for the next hour or so. 

The stars shine on above, and Castiel says, "I let you catch me, you know."

"Bastard," Dean mutters, but he's slumped with exhaustion, his bones molten with pleasure, his hips spasming forwards lazily. 

"I know. That's why you want me."

Castiel is right. He almost always is. 


End file.
